Ira's pov

The house was quieter than usual, though filled with tension masked under formalities and fake smiles. Luca’s parents had stayed an extra day, turning the mansion into a masquerade of cold elegance and suffocating silence. I hadn’t seen Luca properly since that morning, where I served tea beside his mother as she talked about family heritage and wedding traditions like we were any normal couple.

But I felt his eyes. Watching. Calculating.

I was careful. I kept my head down, my voice sweet. And yet—

I smiled.

Just a small, polite curve of my lips when one of the guards nodded at me near the main staircase. It wasn’t flirtatious. Just human. But when I looked up, I saw Luca, across the room, seated beside his father, stiff and expressionless—but his jaw locked.

He said nothing. Not then.

But I knew something would come.

---

It was nearing midnight when the door to my room flew open.

I jumped, the brush falling from my hand.

Luca stood in the doorway, his shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, dark eyes shadowed with rage. He didn’t say a word at first. Just walked in and shut the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed in the room like a gunshot.

I stood slowly, heart thudding. "What’s wrong?"

His voice was low, sharp. "You smiled at him. In front of my padre."

I swallowed. "I didn’t mean—he just nodded at me—"

"And you smiled. Like you had permission."

I took a step back as he approached.

"You think you’re untouchable now because you wear my ring? You think you can forget the rules because you sit at my family table?"

I shook my head. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Stop talking."

His hand gripped my wrist—not painfully, but firm—and he dragged me out of the room. Down the hallway. Past the guest rooms where his parents slept.

Straight into his study.

He shut the door behind us, drew the heavy velvet curtains over the tall windows, and turned the lock with a slow, deliberate twist.

He walked to his leather chair and sat. Legs wide. One arm draped across the armrest. The picture of casual power. Except his eyes—those burned.

"Come here."

I stood frozen.

His voice dropped. "Now."

I moved.

He pointed to the space in front of him. "You want to smile for men? Then smile for me. Move your hips for me. Show me what your polite little grin hides."

My lips parted in shock.

"What—"

"Dance," he said. "On my lap."

The words hit like cold water.

I hesitated, my hands curling at my sides.

He tilted his head. "You disobey now, cara, and I promise you’ll cry louder than you did last time."

Tears stung my eyes but I stepped closer.

He grabbed my waist and pulled me down—onto his lap. The heat of him seared through my nightdress. His hands gripped my hips tightly, forcing a slow grind against him.

"That’s it," he murmured near my ear. "Now we’re honest."

I didn’t know what to do. My body felt foreign. My breath shaky.

His fingers moved, guiding my rhythm. Slow. Unforgiving.

"You think I don’t see you? The way your body responds when I touch you. The way your legs tremble. You hate me, but you ache for me."

I couldn’t look at him.

He laughed softly. Darkly.

"Look at me."

I did. My mistake.

His eyes bore into mine. And in that moment, he looked almost hurt. Almost.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against my jaw.

Then, suddenly, he shoved me off his lap. I landed on the floor, breath knocked from my chest.

He stood.

"You want to dance for others, fine. But never forget who owns the music."

He turned, unlocking the door.

"Wear something respectable tomorrow. My mother likes you in white."

And just like that—he was gone.

Le

aving me on the floor. Alone. Burned by the memory of his touch, and even more by the cold after it faded.